


Choice

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, aomido week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:18:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midorima must decide on his dream--and, in hindsight, whether he regrets that decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> aomido week day 6

“So, are you declaring for the draft?”

Aomine’s question is (as always) blunt, cutting straight to the point the way he cuts through defenders on the court, quicker than Midorima would like it to (he has no time to prepare an answer, but that’s precisely what Aomine wants). 

“The NBA draft?”

Aomine rolls his eyes. “No. Of course the NBA draft.”

Midorima swallows. “I…I’m going to medical school. I can’t declare for the draft.”

“Why not?” Aomine demands.

“I need to go to college; I can’t declare if I have no intentions to sign with a team. I don’t have an agent.”

Aomine squints; his fingertips are still clasped around Midorima’s but they’re not making much of an effort to hold on. Midorima doesn’t really need to ask if Aomine’s declaring; he’s never made a secret of his professional basketball aspirations (and Midorima knows how much Aomine’s agent has been involved with them, especially lately)—but then again, Midorima’s never hid his own plans.

“You’re declaring?”

“Yeah,” says Aomine. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why would I?” counters Midorima.

“Because you love it. Because you’re you, and you can’t stand not competing against the best of the best. You could still be a doctor later, after you retire if you want to.”

“But I’ll have to stop practicing at a certain age—”

“And all of your best basketball years are before you’re 35. You’ll never get those back; you can still have 20-odd years of being a doctor even after college and med school.”

“But I like science,” says Midorima. “I’m good at it.”

“You’re good at basketball, too,” says Aomine. “You don’t need me to tell you that. And aren’t you the one who’s always saying you should try to do everything humanly possible? Are you going to give up?”

Midorima stares. It’s not often he sees Aomine get really worked up about something, this seriously obstinate for a reason other than grinding Midorima’s gears—and Midorima hasn’t seen this coming at all. They haven’t even talked about the draft before other than a few times in passing, and every time the future comes up they brush it aside (but maybe that’s the problem, or part of it—maybe too much of it is too closely tied to their future as a couple to ignore or brush aside for much longer). 

Aomine squeezes Midorima’s fingertips. “I mean, if being a doctor is what you really want to do, then I’ll support you no matter what. But…just think about it, okay?”

Midorima nods, squeezing Aomine’s fingers back, and then slipping his hand all the way into Aomine’s. For a while they don’t speak, and when they do they don’t touch the subject of drafts or the future again. But the thoughts are still buzzing in the back of Midorima’s mind, like bugs contained in tiny jars, refusing to die—being confronted about things like this is troubling, to say the least, but maybe Midorima should have seen this coming. And maybe Aomine’s cast Midorima’s plans to become a surgeon into doubt, but maybe they weren’t so certain in the first place.

The truth is, Midorima hasn’t really thought about it before—he hasn’t let himself. Basketball has always been, first and foremost, a diversion, something to supplement his studies, to help with strength and coordination and leadership, to make him a better person (or at least he’s always thought of it that way). And yes, it’s become other things, something he shares with his closest friends, something that brings him closer to them, something that he truly enjoys doing regardless of any supposed positive impact on his potential for success. But despite what role it was meant to play in his life and what role it does fulfill, he’s never thought of it as a viable career choice. He’s never wavered in his belief that he will go to a national university and then to medical school in order to become the top surgeon in the country. It’s not a dream; it’s just a plan, one carefully laid bit by bit by him and his parents. And he’s never questioned it, because he has no reason to. This plan gives him direction, a concrete long-term goal.

And he likes biology, chemistry, holding instruments steadily in his long fingers and memorizing lists of cell functions and chemical reactions. There’s a certain way his insides clench when he sees something in a microscope, in a gel, do what it’s supposed to do, a deep kind of satisfaction. And if it’s a larger sense of that feeling he’s working toward, step by step, well, he can do a hell of a lot worse.

The trouble is, now that he thinks about it, basketball gives him that kind of feeling, too. There’s the way the ball flies off his fingers as if it was designed to do that, swishes through the hoop almost soundlessly; there’s the way he sees his teammates setting up and the opposing team guarding and everything falls into place and he knows exactly where he needs to be, exactly how high to jump and where to put his hands when a teammate passes to him; there’s the thrill of coming down from the air when he’s just blocked a shot, palm still stinging like hell and victory; there’s the feeling of a win, the kinship with his teammates, the collective sense of accomplishment from every pass and shot and block and dribble he’d tried throughout the game and the men who completed those plays along with him. Even the ache of defeat reverberates deeply, scabbing over and healing stronger. And the thing about those basketball feelings is that they’re better than anything he gets from his lab work. They’re more substantial; they’re warmer; they stay with him—the momentary excitement of science fades quickly as he writes down the numbers and takes another look, but he falls asleep thinking about the flick of the wrists on a pass he made in the morning until the exhaustion outlasts him.

And, okay, maybe he’s realized this a little bit more than he wants to admit to himself, but he’s tamped it down like a barista leveling off a basket before he attaches it to the espresso machine, brushed it aside like routine with promises that it will get exciting when he starts college or medical school, that he’s laying important foundations and that it was the same when he started basketball (except it wasn’t; it was immediately full of possibility and promise and hooked him, reeling him in harder than the draw of basic cell structure or the periodic table). But so what? He’s going to medical school anyway; even if science isn’t his passion he likes it well enough to enjoy doing it for the rest of his life. And basketball is potentially more lucrative, but becoming a surgeon as a surer bet. If he makes a wrong incision, someone’s life or livelihood could be on the line—but he’ll learn how to avoid that, how to make the right cuts and stitches, how the body works. He won’t have two meters of densely-muscled human slamming into him, won’t run the risk of blowing out his knees before he hits his mid-twenties. It’s a different kind of risk, one he can’t really rationalize away, with too many external variables—it seems all too real (he’s seen too many players his own age crack their wrists open and come back wrong and different, fuck up their legs beyond repair with just one misstep of another player). 

Well, he can say all that but in the end it doesn’t matter; despite the uncertainties he wants to do basketball. It’s not rational (and that bugs the hell out of him in many regards), but desires aren’t supposed to be. And it’s not just love of the game; it’s not as if he’ll be satisfied playing pickups or rec league games on the weekends (or whenever he has free time from work), or one-on-ones with Takao or Aomine (if they’re even still together by that point, whether Midorima finds a job as a doctor overseas or not). He knows himself too well and has too much pride to let himself think he’ll be satisfied by less than top competition, knowing  that even now friends and former teammates are making their ways into the ranks of professional leagues, that the NBL and NBA are achievable goals, that he wants that. He’s never allowed himself to dream, not concretely, about thousands of fans screaming in the background as he blocks a shot, standing for introductions and already sweating from the unyielding glow of the lights. He’s never allowed himself to fully think that the scouts at the games are there for him—it’s always for Kise or Murasakibara or someone else, an opponent whose basketball aspirations are loud and clear and professional. But what the hell; even if they were there for some other player they’ll have seen him by now anyway, and they can’t have disliked everything they saw him do—he has no reason to doubt that declaring for the draft will land him somewhere. (And that that somewhere will be on the same continent as Aomine, well, Midorima can’t say that’s not a factor.)

This isn’t a decision to make lightly or impulsively, but Midorima’s not doing that. It’s been weighing on his mind for a while now, camouflaged by his willingness to lie to himself, and even though it is an impulse it’s been one that’s been driving him for some time. It’s not sudden; it’s like a slowly-building wave whose base has just hit the ocean floor, beginning to break. He’ll give himself a few days to sort it out, to see if he can really go through with it or it’s just a cold-footed fantasy with the prospect of medical school and separation from his boyfriend looming on the horizon—but he has a feeling it won’t be.

* * *

The next time Midorima sees Aomine is the next Friday. They’d planned a date at a small café but they’re both running late and the place is closing early, although there’s still time to go in and buy coffee and food. The late winter evening is cool and crisp but not uncomfortable, and they settle on a bench in the park. They talk for a while about insubstantial things like the weather and how inconvenient it is when everything closes earlier. The wind is blowing enough for Aomine to huddle closer to Midorima (Midorima remarks that he of all people should have brought a coat, and Aomine asks if that means he’d rather sit farther away—to that Midorima doesn’t reply). And soon enough, Aomine’s arm is wrapped around Midorima’s waist, and the little that’s left of Midorima’s coffee has grown cold. He takes a final sip, in the hopes that it will prepare him to say this better—it doesn’t, but he can’t be a coward about this. It’s supposed to be the easy part.

“I’ve decided,” Midorima says, clutching his empty cup a little bit tighter. “I want to declare for the draft.”

Aomine’s eyes widen and a crumb of biscotti escapes his mouth. 

“I’d like to have your agent’s phone number,” Midorima continues. “If you think she’d take me as a client.”

“You’re declaring,” says Aomine.

“Yes,” says Midorima. 

“You really mean it?”

Midorima nods—Aomine doesn’t seem as happy as Midorima had thought he would. But what he’d said before had seemed in earnest, so it couldn’t have been a throwaway to make Midorima believe he cared.

But then a smile breaks on Aomine’s face; he reaches across with his free hand to clasp Midorima’s hand on top of the cup, pulling him closer and practically enclosing him in his very warm arms. 

“You’re declaring,” he says, this time through an almost giddy grin.

Midorima nods again. “I want to play basketball. Professionally. I want to play with you.”

Aomine kisses him on the cheek, the arm around Midorima’s waist stroking his skin through his sweater. The wind rustles the trees again; Aomine shivers and Midorima worms his arm around Aomine’s torso to hug him back properly. They’re in a physically awkward position; passersby are giving them strange looks—Midorima doesn’t bother to look back at them. They’re not worth even minimal time and effort.

They stay this way for a few minutes, until Midorima’s foot starts to cramp and his arm starts to strain. Aomine leans back against the slats of the bench again, but their arms remain around each other’s bodies and Aomine’s head is up against Midorima’s shoulder. The waves of relief and pleasure that have been sloshing around inside of him for the past few days and subsiding before they can rise into real swells begin to wash higher, to peak and break and spread across Midorima’s body.

“Have you told your parents?” Aomine asks.

“Not yet,” says Midorima.

“So I’m the first, huh? Does this mean I’m special?”

“Yes,” says Midorima.

The word drops from his mouth more quickly and easily than he expected it to. Aomine’s cheeks grow hot; Midorima can feel the warmth spreading on his shoulder. He still does have to tell his parents; he still does have to sign an agent and officially declare; he still does have to actually get drafted and hold a roster spot—those won’t be easy to come by, but this moment wasn’t, either. So for now he lets Aomine settle in beside him and enjoys the familiar weight against his side.


	2. Chapter 2

Daiki’s first thought upon waking up is that this noise is really fucking annoying; his second is not to identify it but to reach out and try to roll on top of Shintarou, who’s already halfway sitting up. 

“I have to answer the phone,” says Shintarou, and oh, that’s that damn noise.

Daiki flops back down and puts a pillow over his ears to drown out the ringing; it still pierces into his mind like a barb through a fish’s mouth and then finally it stops, familiar muted beep of the handset being turned on as Shintarou lifts it from its cradle. 

“Hello?” His voice is soft but he’s not attempting to hide the irritation or tiredness from it—who the hell calls them this late (and on the landline to boot) anyway?

Daiki tosses the pillow aside and wraps his arms around Shintarou, burying his face in Shintarou’s hip against the softness of his pajama shirt.

“Is everything alright?”

His voice is tense, worried; he instantly sounds more alert—Daiki squeezes his torso in what probably isn’t a reassuring way. If it was something wrong, wouldn’t whoever this is try their cell phones first? (Did the person try that? Are their phones on silent?)

“Oh,” says Shintarou. “Then why are you calling at this hour? You do know it’s the middle of the night?”

Daiki relaxes his grip, nuzzles against Shintarou, and Shintarou’s fingers work their way into his hair. It’s a lovely scalp massage, but Shintarou’s fingers are never anything short of pleasurable on Daiki’s body. He sighs, unable to keep up with the conversation—he can hear the cadence and emotions of Shintarou’s voice, going up and down like running water in a fountain, and feel the words in Shintarou’s skin as he says them. 

Shintarou’s hand eventually stills. “Daiki? Do you want to talk?”

He doesn’t even know who it is he’d be talking to, and they (and Shintarou) probably expect him to say something relevant to the conversation. He shakes his head.

“He’s falling asleep…should I send him your greetings?”

His fingers are still unmoving, threaded through Daiki’s hair, thumb extending onto Daiki’s forehead. Daiki feels like whining for attention, but since Shintarou’s call seems like it’s ending he might as well wait a while. 

“Congratulations,” Shintarou says, and then his fingers resume their motions on Daiki’s scalp. “Good night.”

He puts the phone back into the charger; the clatter of plastic on plastic is jarring, and Daiki nuzzles Shintarou’s side again.

“Did you hear any of that?” Shintarou asks.

“Only the end,” Daiki says, raising his head.

In the low light from the face of the clock and patches of street lamp shining through, he can only see parts of Shintarou’s face. He’s smiling.

“Who were you congratulating, anyway?”

“My sister,” he says. “She just got into Todai’s medical program.”

The pride in Shintarou’s voice swells like a wave a hundred or so meters out from the shoreline—and holy shit, that is definitely something to be proud of. 

“No kidding? I mean, she’s a smart kid, but damn.”

“She’s been studying very hard,” says Shintarou. 

Daiki sits up. Shintarou squints in his general direction; in the low light without glasses he might as well be blind, so Daiki positions himself inside the crook of his shoulder. He wouldn’t have chosen to wake up at this hour, but nights when he and Shintarou are both at home during the season are rare, and they’re both usually too tired to enjoy each other to the extent that Daiki wishes they were able to when he’s catching his breath alone at night in a hotel room on the other side of the country. Shintarou, too, is savoring the moment; his knuckles are grazing against the bare skin between the elastic on Daiki’s boxers and the hem of his t-shirt.

“Do you regret not going to medical school?” Daiki asks—he’s not sure if it’s appropriate, but he’s counting on Shintarou forgiving him if it’s not.

Both of them are quiet for a few moments; the sound of the air filter and their breathing and noise from outside the window filling the silence.

Then, “No. I don’t. I never have.”

“Weren’t they your goals? Dreams?”

Shintarou sighs. “No. I thought I should do it, and I liked the idea well enough, but it was never a…passion.”

It had always seemed that way to Daiki, as if Shintarou was treating his future like a duty to his family rather than something that had belonged to him—and that had been part of the reason Daiki had urged him so strongly to at least consider basketball (Daiki’s own selfish desires to keep Shintarou with him, or at least on the same continent, had played a part, but they hadn’t been close to the only thing). But it’s still a delicate matter, one they usually just lay to rest in the past.

“You’re not in awe of the idea of being a high-powered doctor?”

“I still see the appeal, but…if my parents are dead-set on one of their children being a doctor, it ought to be the one who really wants it. I’d rather be here, doing this.”

“Being with me, you mean?” Daiki says, squeezing Shintarou around the waist. 

“Among other things, yes,” says Shintarou.

Goddamn, he’s cute to the most unfair degree when he’s honest. And it’s even less fair that it’s this late and sleep is catching up to them; Daiki wants to push Shintarou down and take him right there, despite both of them having games tomorrow (and Daiki’s being in fucking Philadelphia and having to travel there). Daiki groans. 

“Let’s do it in the morning,” he says.

“What?” says Shintarou.

“You. Me. Sex. Here. Next time we wake up,” Daiki says, snuggling down under the covers.

“Wow. Romantic,” says Shintarou, but he settles in next to Daiki and lets Daiki wind his arm back around his waist.

“I love you, too,” says Daiki.

Shintarou rolls over, settling himself in.

“I love you,” he says, just loud enough to stand out against the background noise.

Daiki’s fingers find his and they intertwine.


End file.
